Lay me down

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.  Now I don't fear vaccines, because let's face it, with the mind's ever-darkening and cynically cycled thoughts, I've injected worse into my body. What I have been doing though, is a bit of fantasizing. A Clockwork Orange and excessive sleeping hardly creates a barrier for the active mind. My thoughts have reduced to a roux of sinful scenarios I'd surely try on for size. Suppose the deterioration of the life and yearnings of my bones were as matte as tomorrow's eggshell sky.  The bells and whistles inside, the rust into blood as it begins to freeze over. With a terminal illness, I am free to retire unto my own gear's rot. I am going to let myself indulge in this truffled notion for only a few moments, but I will spend a lifetime is search of being comfortably numb. The act of termination itself is a windowless and dismal trench, weighted heavily of shakily written last words to carry across a message that will never truly be received. However, an end of great certainly is ventilated by a promise. Give me a reason to live, give me a reason to die. Living on borrowed time, I would have a painted excuse of why the cogs stopped spinning. There would be no light, illumination the bottom of Mariana's Trench, but that would only further salt my wounds, but whose to say I don't love the pain. The weakness would be my strength as the blackness slowly spread, taking me with it. If you can grant me this frailty, and the monstrosity, then open the doors because I've had this ticket my entire life. Strike a match, and just tell me when.